To Become A Dark Lord
by Ceris Malfoy
Summary: AU after the fifth book. NO HORCRUXES. Harry gets left alone at Headquarters the summer after his 5th year, and finds something that changes his life forever. Dark!Harry. Parody style, sorta. RnR!
1. Part 1

**Yosh! This is my entry for the 30k-word contest on Third Floor Corridor. I don't think it'll be the best one there, but I'm hoping to win the Most Death's award. . This story actually has a plot, and if I can't get the rest of it finished by October 31st, I'll still be working on it for you guys. I like this one. It has that strange sense of humor that I find particularly funny -though many won't get it. (_shrugs_) Oh well, not my problem. **

**DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter belongs to JKRowling and whoever else she allows to play with her creations. I do not have her permission, but I am not making any profit off this fic, so please don't sue me.****

* * *

**

Life is like stepping onto a boat which is about to sail out to sea and sink.  
– Shunryu Suzuki Roshi 

**"Men are mad most of their lives; few live sane, fewer die so. … The acts of people are baffling unless we realize that their wits are disordered. Man is driven to justice by his lunacy."**

**- Edward Dahlberg

* * *

**

**T****o Become a Dark Lord **

**_Part 1: The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black_**

**By: Ceris Malfoy

* * *

**

Harry Potter was not exactly what one would consider a normal guy. A normal male, surrounded by the mementos of his failure might get angry, or slip into depression. That normal male would look back and discover each and every single individual thing that could have been done differently. Each and every detail would be picked over, until all he could see were failures and betrayals. He would destroy himself in anger and/or grief.

But Harry James Potter was not normal.

After the Department of Mysteries fiasco, after he had shred Dumbledore's office, Harry had become numb. He watched everyone around him crying (over Cedric, not him; never him). He watched them laughing (over the end of yet another year, not with him or to him; never him). He watched them spend as much time as possible with their friends (not with him though; never him). He watched them in their general ignorance and finally grasped what the Dursleys, in their own bigoted, abusive way, had been trying to tell him for years.

He was different.

Ron and Hermione were no comfort to him. They didn't understand what it was like. They would never understand. He was a marked man, for better or for worse. He was different, and every single student with their too-loud conversation, accusing stares, and whispered insults knew it.

He drifted further and further away from them all –sometimes hiding outright when it was called for. And he waited to go back to the Hell that was the Dursleys.

Harry had been about to board the Hogwarts Express when one of the Order members pulled him aside. He would never be able to remember the name or the face of who told him the news. He had been in too much shock (and unbearable joy) at the time to really bother; the Dursleys were dead.

Dead. Lifeless. Gone. _Dead_.

Apparently Voldemort had been more than slightly irate that Harry had screwed yet another one of his brilliant plans (as if) and retaliated in the only way he knew how to: slaughtering Harry's relatives. Harry supposed that this was supposed to make him feel absolutely wretched, or at the very least mildly guilty. It was funny, really, all he actually wanted to do was start jumping up and down screaming in disbelieving happiness.

But anyway.

He had been packed up and shipped off to Headquarters (which apparently he now owned, but did anyone bother to tell him that?) and left there to his own devices for the rest of the summer. The first week was blurry. He remembered nothing but alternate fits of fury and joy. Half the house (mostly the furniture) was in ruins; the other half was absolutely spotless.

And then, one avidly curious morning, he had gotten it into his head to start exploring the dank, dark, and decrepit old house. He had stayed to familiar territory for the most part – it wouldn't do to end up dead from a doxy bite – when he had seen the corridor. There was nothing particularly odd about it. It was just a simple hallway with doors on either side in even intervals. The doors were not even all that interesting – just as black and grimy as the rest of the house with silver doorknobs. But….

But.

But the floor was almost spotless; just a thin layer of dust. But one of the doors appeared to have been slammed repeatedly -it was splintering at the edges. But one of the doorknobs was gold. Harry had crept along the hallway, feeling guilty and strange like he wasn't supposed to be here. He reached the door, grasped the knob, and opened it.

Tears had lept to his eyes. He had discovered Sirius' room; a room that at first glance appeared to be just as dank and hopeless as the rest of the house. On the second, it was oddly fragmented. Bright posters of various QWhatuidditch teams (although most were posters of last year's Gryffindor Quidditch team) plastered on rotting walls with pealing green-black wall paper. A cracked ceiling with sections missing (Harry saw that a bathroom was one floor above) that had muggle glow-in-the-dark stars pasted on it. Splintered furniture carved with grotesque-looking serpents covered with Gryffindor tribute. Sections of the room were neat and tidy, and others were decidedly not.

Harry had walked into the room, sat down in the center on the floor, and simply stared fixedly at absolutely nothing. He did this every day, without fail, for anywhere between 1 to 10 hours. Some days he would think, some days he would plan, and some days (the worst days) he would remember. He would remember Sirius, and everything that man was to him. Freedom. Hope. Family. Home.

A month passed, perhaps two (maybe more; he could no longer be sure), and he still came up here. Hid in Sirius' room with Sirius' things. He never touched. _Could_ not touch anything, not yet, maybe not ever. And over this time came to an understanding about himself and about his godfather's death. He felt at peace.

Whenever he wasn't in Sirius' room, he would go back to exploring his new property. He felt wrong for being here, felt like he was intruding on something he couldn't possibly understand. So he passed through the hallways like a ghost, silent and careful movements taking care to not disturb even the dust.

It was on one of the weeks before he was to be shipped back off to Hogwarts that Harry had wandered into the library. It was old and dusty and obviously no one had wandered in here for quite some time – he wouldn't even have wandered in here had he not been so bored. He had not gotten very far when a small, brutally shredded booklet caught his eyes. He picked it up, carefully pieced it back together, and read.

Nothing would ever be the same after that.

* * *

**So? What did you think? RnR!**


	2. Part 2

**Well, here it is! The next chapter in this interesting farce of a parody. It appears to be a serious fic (sortof), but it's really not -as will become readily apparent with the next chapter. Expect some silly events people. (_winks_) And while I can't tell you much, I can reveal that the next chapter is where I seriously tried to qualify for the "Most Deaths" Award. The main catch for the award was that every death had to have a semi-reasonable reason for the death. I.e.- no sudden mass deaths would qualify. Thus the war scene at the end of this chapter doesn't qualify either. **

**DISCLAIMER: It all belongs to JKR. Not mine, never mine. Sorry 'bout that.**

* * *

"**The art of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike him as hard as you can, and keep moving on." **

**-Ulysses S. Grant**

"**Winning is not a sometime thing. You don't win once in a while; you don't do things right once in a while; you do them right all the time. Winning is a habit. Unfortunately, so is losing."**

**-Vince Lombardi

* * *

**

**To Become a Dark Lord**

_**Part 2: Eliminate the Competition **_

**By: Ceris Malfoy

* * *

**

It was dark outside, almost 2 in the morning and counting down. The castle was quiet; the silence stretched through the corridors like a cloying mist, thick and unavoidable. Here and there a noise could be heard, but such noises were often swift in their departure, as if ashamed to have disturbed the silence. The lights were out, leaving a black void that only the brave dared trespass. The one teacher (the insomniac also known as Severus Snape) who traversed these dark corridors with the ease of one who knew his domain like the back of his hand.

But tonight, even he stayed safely barricaded within his corridors.

The moon was absent from the skies, the stars receded into the inky void that was the sky. It was a dark night, the darkest night of the year. The one night of the year where the blackest magic seemed to seep from the shadows; the one night of the year where only the darkest of rituals could hope to succeed. Not even Severus Snape dared walk about the corridors on this night. He hid himself within his chambers, drowned his fine-tuned senses in the strongest firewhisky money could buy, lit every light in the room, and prayed to whatever deities willing to listen that he would survive the temptation. Magic called to magic, and this was night was no exception.

Harry knew this quite well, having wondered the halls for five years -this was the only night of the year where Snape could not be found looming around every corner. It was also the one night he could feel the malevolent power calling to him, swirling through his veins, augmenting his magic. This one night of the year, you could usually find Harry outside the castle, staring at the looming sky; on these occasions he felt strangely insignificant, but at the same time, immensely powerful. As if he was standing on the edge of a great precipice that was threatening to swallow him whole, and was only managing to avoid it by his own stubborn will.

This night, however, Harry had no intention of avoiding that great darkness. Armed with the knowledge so carefully gleaned from the Black Library (as well as his intense hatred for Voldemort) Harry intended for only one thing to happen.

Harry smirked slightly, opened his eyes, and lept.

* * *

_Why are yo_u_ here?_

I don't remember.

_Is that so? _

It doesn't matter.

_Then what does matter?_

Getting what I need.

_What is it that you want?_

...power.

_And what will you do to gain it?_

I will loose.

_Loose what?_

Everything.

_...interesting...

* * *

_

Harry was once again haunting the extensive library of Hogwarts. He was safely tucked away in the far corner of the library, where no hint of light from the candles could be seen from the entrance. He was curled in an overly-large cushioned chair -there was no chair quite like it in the entirety of the castle, giving away its blatantly conjured existence. Thin, tapered candles floated around the chair. There were only six of them, but they were so strategically placed that there appeared to be many more. The light they gave off staved off the approaching void whose domain Harry was intruding upon.

It was long after midnight, long after curfew, but he really did not care about that.

What he did care about, the only thing that mattered to him, the only thing that was important at that particular moment in time, was the book in front of him. An ancient text, damn near decaying, but Harry did not care about that either. He wanted the information, the secrets, and if he had to deal with mold and dust to get what he wanted, so be it.

He gently turned the page, being careful to make as little noise as possible. It was not in his best interests if someone caught him with _this_ book at this hour of night, after all. Silently he read, absorbing the less-than-helpful descriptions of the Blood Rituals. It was sad to him that this was the only text that contained information on these rituals within the entirety of the greatest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the whole of Europe. But, he would make do with what he had -Riddle couldn't have had many more resources than this if this book were to be believed .

Apparently Blood Rituals were extremely frowned upon.

Go figure.

Now, if only he could figure out what sort of Blood Ritual Riddle had used to tie his existence to the mortal world...

* * *

If truth were to be told, more than one person was concerned about the Boy-Who-Lived. Of these people, there were some who actually had reason to be concerned -Harry Potter was their friend, surrogate brother, and protector. And then there were those few, twisted individuals who were only concerned because it reflected badly on them should he not be the epitome of a self-sacrificing yet well-adjusted martyr of a Gryffindor -namely Severus Snape, Albus Dumbledore, and (to some extent) Draco Malfoy. 

It came as no surprise to Harry that people like Hermione or Ron or even Cho were worried about his frequent absences from the Great Hall during meals. It came as no surprise when people like Hermione (again) or Neville worried about his non-existent attendance in class. These were staples in his life, pillars that would never change.

But to learn that Severus Snape, that greasy git, was _worried_ about him? Harry had the peculiar feeling in the pit of his stomach that the reality of the universe had turned ass over tit.

He wasn't comfortable with this feeling.

It had taken him awhile to reason through that worry, to understand what that man (and others like him) stood to gain from being worried for him. He thought he finally understood it all. Snape was worried because to not be worried risked everything that the man was fighting for. If Harry was suffering, there was a chance that the suffering was life-threatening, there-in undermining the prophecy that was, for Snape, the last shred of hope in an otherwise hopeless life. If Harry was just being an impertinent brat and testing the boundaries against which he'd never pushed...well, what did it say about an educator if he couldn't keep his student in line?

It was both a matter of pride and a matter of survival, and Harry supposed this odd combination made him respect the man, at least a bit.

Draco Malfoy, on the other hand...

He confused Harry -there was no point in even trying to lie about that. Aside from their positions and roles as bitter rivals and deadly enemies, there was nothing that linked them together. So by what force of nature did that arrogant blond pull his head out of his ass and worry about someone other than himself?

It puzzled Harry, and lately that was not a good thing to be doing. He had always been a curious child, but that did not mean that he _liked_ riddles and puzzles. As a matter of fact, he _hated_ them. Loathed them, even. And for Draco to become a puzzle, well, it truly did not bode well for the pale boy's continued health. But regardless of his own personal feelings on the matter, it still remained fact that Draco Malfoy was unbearably worried about him. Others may not have noticed it, given the boy's almost preternatural skill at hiding what was really going behind those quicksilver eyes of his, but Harry did. He understood Draco better than the boy himself did, and knew what made him tick. His concern was given away by the tilt of his head, the faint lines around the eyes, the stiffness of his body when they argued.

Draco couldn't hide, not from him.

And Albus...

This, Harry just found funny. He knew that in some twisted way, Albus Dumbledore cared for him. The old man may not have known how to show it, but there it was. The great man, leader of the Light and beacon of hope to all those who opposed Voldemort, _cared_. Of course, that all meant absolutely squat when one considered that Harry was still nothing but a tool to be used for the "greater good". As far as Harry knew, Albus Dumbledore was to blame for most of his more serious problems (he was not so foolish as to blame him for _all_ of them -he was not without blame himself). As far as he was concerned, Albus Dumbledore could go hang himself.

If Harry was truly honest with himself, he would admit that he wanted to be there when the man died.

* * *

They were fed up. 

It was an understatement if there ever was one, but the Professors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry hardly cared about the proper categorization of their less-than-friendly feelings for one particular 6th-year student. But that wasn't the point.

No, what was the point, was that she, Minerva McGonnagal, Professor of Transfiguration and the Head of House for said 6th-year student, was currently very frustrated.

The other professors had been beyond furious with Harold James Potter for his blatant disregard of both rules and etiquette, and damn near blind with panic when they had discovered (in a misguided attempt to administer enough detentions that the boy's _grandchildren_ would still be serving them) that the boy was nowhere to be found.

He never ate in the Great Hall, he never attended classes or Quidditch practice (much to the fury of the team), and what was even more worrying was the simple fact that his dorm-mates reported that they hadn't seen Harry enter the _common room _let alone his dorm. This had led to a massive panic attack that inevitably resulted in the castle being locked down. The students were forcibly returned to their Houses, the entrances warded shut so that they couldn't leave, and then every available adult began to scour the castle for some clue as to where the boy-wonder was.

After nearly three days of searching, they eventually found him in the library, tucked away in a tiny corner that apparently had generations upon generations of powerful Notice-Me-Not charms layered on it. The overly-large stuffed chair (which incidentally was called a recliner and never been formally introduced to Wizarding Society as a whole) showed signs of prolonged use. The table was groaning beneath the stacks of heavy tomes . A large tray (that had at one point earlier that last day of the search) contained food...The conclusion they collectively drew was a startling one.

Harry Potter had been _living_ in the library.

It startled the Professors so badly that they immediately withdrew the second those burning Avada Kedavra-green eyes focused on their stupefied forms. For as sure as they were alive and breathing, the boy's eyes were glowing in the dim light provided by several strategically placed candles. It was only after they were already outside of the library that they realized what had happened -they had been chased off by a mere boy of sixteen who had performed a severely advanced form of aura manipulation, effectively producing a strange, yet ruthless type of killing intent.

Thus, it was up to one of three candidates to deal with the boy.

Severus Snape, Potions Master and all-around Greasy Git, who was just nasty enough to deal with any ...variations on the boy's part.

Filius Flitwick, Professor of Charms and Dueling Champion, who was secure enough (and, oddly, small enough) to deal with the boy's infamous temper.

And, finally, Minerva McGonnagal, Professor of Transfiguration and secretly-at-heart a surrogate (grand)mother for the boy, who had nearly six decades of dealing with brash, hot-headed, powerful males.

Oddly enough, Gryffindor seemed to have a lot of them.

Which all led to her current situation. She was sitting in front of her (at-times alarmingly frightening) student, waiting to be acknowledged. After nearly half-an-hour, she cleared her throat.

"Hem, hem."

The look Harry shot her could have melted glass.

After an agonizing series of long seconds, he took exaggerated care when closing the ancient text, settling a small slip of parchment inside to mark his spot. He settled his chin on interlocked fingers, and stared at her. For several minutes he said nothing, did nothing, just stared. He didn't blink, he didn't twitch -hell, if he even breathed, Minerva couldn't tell. And then, when at last she felt like screaming her fool-head off, he deigned to start the conversation.

"Can I help you, Professor?" The tone was calm, collected, cold as ice, and unbearably polite.

Minerva took a few seconds to calm herself. She would not be the irate child here. She would be calm and collected, even if it killed her. "Mr. Potter, can you please explain your extreme misconduct within the past several months?"

Harry raised an imperiously arched eyebrow. "Misconduct, Professor?" He leaned back, placed his arms gently on the arms of his chair, and cocked his head in a blandly curious way. "I was unaware of any misconduct on my behalf. In fact," here an almost unholy light of amusement entered his eyes, "I think I've handled myself quite well in regards to the constant interruptions to my work."

Minerva resisted the urge to leap across the desk and throttle the boy. "And of the classes you've been missing? The blatant disregard for the curfew?"

Harry waved a hand in a dismissive manner. "Mere trifles, Professor. What I'm doing is far more important than any classes I may, or may not, be missing." He gave his Head of House an indulgent grin. "Besides, I thought everyone would have been happy to see me preoccupied with the research that will lead to Voldemort's downfall."

If Minerva had been any lesser being, her jaw would have dropped. As it was, her heart stopped beating for a very long moment, which, at her age (and considering the events of last year), was not exactly beneficial. "Harry-" and then her voice caught in her throat.

Because Harry was clearly no longer listening to_ her_. His head was cocked slightly to the left, his gaze empty and vacant. He nodded slightly every now and again, and Minerva suddenly realized something that she had never even considered before. She had thought that Harry was angry, confused, or even depressed. She had never once entertained the idea that Harry Potter was _insane_.

The epiphany left her speechless, her eyes widened with shock, her face devoid of any color.

Harry's gaze refocused on her, and he smiled a terrible, empty smile at her, his eyes demented and glowing eerily. "Are you alright, Professor?" His voice was mild, infuriatingly polite, but devoid of any real meaning.

Minerva flinched as if struck, and immediately left the vicinity.

Perhaps leaving the boy alone and isolated from human contact after the death of both his godfather and his only remaining family had not been the best of ideas.

Minerva never saw the satisfied smirk that crossed the boy's face, nor heard the condescending laughter. Harry rolled his eyes at the gullibility of his professor, and went back to his book.

* * *

Three weeks later, everyone who was anyone knew that Harry Potter was absolutely bug nuts. This prompted one of the largest waves of mass hysteria that Hogwarts had ever seen, and later (after the disbelief that their savior had flipped his lid) an unstoppable wave of absolute fury was directed at the professors and the Slytherins. It didn't take a genius to realize that the life of one Harry Potter was not all roses and sunshine. More than one student knew of the conditions of Harry's home life. And nearly every person in the Wizarding World knew who sent him back repeatedly, regardless of the rumors surrounding what happened during those summers. 

No one really _knew_, of course. But despite their many shortcomings, they were _stupid_. They saw they way Harry retreated inside himself as the end of term neared. They heard the many arguments between Harry and the Headmaster. They saw how thin and quiet Harry was when he returned. They saw the bruises, the skittish behavior. They weren't stupid, and knew how to add two and two and end up at four.

But it wasn't just that. The students also knew about the "adventures". Everyone was aware of what went on at Hogwarts -the rumor mill was a very active ingredient of life at Hogwarts, and even taking into account that some facts might have been ...altered, the bare bones of the rumors said one very important thing: Harry Potter risked his life for nothing more than a metaphorical pat on the head.

And it wasn't even as if he _wanted_ to partake of these "adventures". Oh, sure, there were the usual moral complications (i.e. -you're not supposed to just stand still and watch as your best friend's sister is being slowly murdered, or allow an innocent man to be Kissed) that made it damn near impossible to refuse to take part in the "adventures", but everyone knew that if he had had the choice, Harry Potter would have told them all to go fuck themselves.

Although, if they were honest with themselves (which was rare), they would admit that they would blame him if he had. Just like they'd like to blame him for going psycho, they knew that if he had, they would never have allowed him rest afterwards. Which was ironic, because they each knew in the deepest parts of their souls that they would never have been able to do half the things he had done without cracking. And it was precisely because of this secret part of their inner beings that they were so furious with the professors and the Slytherins.

To the professors they turned their voiceless fury. What right did those who were supposed to protect them have to destroy one of their own so completely? For although he was their savior, Harry Potter nonetheless was a student of Hogwarts, one of them. That the professors would and could disregard the safety and well-being of a child they were supposed to protect...

It was an abomination in their eyes.

But to the Slytherins the students of the other Houses turned their absolute disgust. It was just like those ruthless bastards to kick someone while they were down -especially if that someone had the potential to be much more powerful and/or influential than themselves. It was no secret that the collective whole of Slytherin loathed the Boy-Who-Lived with every fiber of their being. The younger years learned to follow the atrocious examples of behavior of both the older Slytherins and their Head of House, which just led the other Houses right back to their mounting fury towards their professors.

Their professors: people who allowed _that man_ to continuously expose their savior to his misplaced hatred; the people who allowed _that man _to influenced the minds of impressionable children; people who allowed _that man_ to deliberately sabotage the futures of any student not decked in silver and green. Their professors, a collection of adults who were supposed to be the best of their fields, the upstanding pillars of their community.

Oh yes, they were quite furious indeed.

* * *

It hadn't been easy. 

Green eyes, glowing with an indomitable inner fire, surveyed the broken battleground. Those eyes, burning bright in the gloom, took in the blood that was absorbed greedily by the parched earth, the mangled corpses of opponents and allies alike. The owner of these eyes raised his head and contemplated the blood-red sky and the reddish-orange moon that burned just as brilliantly as they did. For a moment, all he wanted to do was laugh in a twisted sense of triumph, but the moment was fleeting and the urge to laugh hysterically passed with it.

Harry stood there panting, covered in blood and some unidentifiable greenish-black goo, and the only thought that ran through his head was just how damn difficult it all had been. He ran his hand through his hair, frowning when his shaking hand bumped against a sensitive (as in instant pain/dizziness) place on his skull. His vision swam, but with the steady patience of one who has suffered through such wounds before, he merely stood _very _still and waited for the momentary ...to pass.

He had known before hand that this massacre of a battle would happen (he might have been an 'optimistic psycho with delusions of grandeur', but he wasn't so foolish as to assume that Voldemort wasn't a blood-thirsty megalomaniac who fancied himself the greatest Dark Lord in history), but he really hadn't expected it to happen this _soon_. He had imagined that it would happen either the day of or the day after his graduation. Not three weeks until 6th year exams. He shivered, hands clenching and unclenching convulsively.

He had won.

It had not been easy.

He, Harry Potter, had conquered over the Dark Lord (yet again). It had not been because he was more skilled or more powerful (because he wasn't and never would be). It had not been because he was smarter or more clever (because he was only 16, and he figured that Voldemort had at least 50-some years on him in the learning department). It wasn't because of some petty emotion that he barely understood (really, what _had _Dumbledore been thinking? How was _love_, of all things,supposed to defeat the self-styled Greatest Dark Lord in History? What was he supposed to do, hug Voldemort to death?) It was for a very simple and very twisted reason.

He had won because that was what he did.

He had kicked Voldemort's ass and had been a regular pain in the ass since he had been a year old. Harry defeated Voldemort because he could, and that was that. That was all he needed to know, all he wanted to know. And if someone thought differently, that was their problem. He wanted nothing to do with it.

Harry tore his gaze from the moon and turned it towards the crumbling ruin that was all that was left of Riddle Manor. A disturbing gleam of fury lit his eyes for a brief moment, but the emotion was fleeting and it passed. All that was left was numbness. It had all started there. The battle, the torture, the death; the vileness that he had stamped out of the world the second he had destroyed Voldemort. Some part of him knew that he should be rejoicing, should be gathering those that were left and celebrating his freedom, but that part was small, and was buried beneath the larger part of him that knew better. He knew that despite this, he was not yet free, would not be free until all his jailers were dead and gone -not just his fellow inmates.

The breeze was cold, but not freezing. He bore the discomfort it caused his wounds with barely a whimper of complaint.

Harry stared at that place and wondered why. It was almost completely decimated -the battle had been brutal, and none of the participants had particularly cared enough to temper their spells so that the surrounding environment would have the chance to stay in one piece. Chunks of splintered wood were literally hanging by their splinters, clinging desperately to the frame of the house. Most of the windows were completely blasted away, as were all the doors. Sections of the house had strange shimmers to them -places were the magic had been absorbed by the ancient wood and merely waited for something living to foolishly touch it. Harry glowered. He _hated _that place, hated it as he had never hated anything before. The rage rose within him again, and before he was even aware of moving, he had his wand pointed at the manor.

"_**INCENDIO**_!!!" he roared, and watched in savage triumph as the manor abruptly burst into crimson flames.

* * *

"Minister." 

Rufus Scrimgeour, the newly-appointed Minister of Magic, rolled his eyes heavenward and wondered what he had done to deserve a strict sycophant who nevertheless believed he was superior to his superiors. "What is it, Weasley?" There was silence, and Rufus sighed mentally. He dragged his aching body out of his chair, stretched, and leveled his best glare at the estranged Weasley.

Percy ignored the glare with all the grace of one who knew he was God and wouldn't be told otherwise. He was used to such glares -goodness knows he had been on the receiving end of quite a few of them from nearly everyone he ever met... He leaned back against the wall, and shuffled the many parchments he held. Finally finding the one he wanted, he quietly read over it, delicately memorizing key pieces of information so that he could properly summarize the lengthy document.

"Weasley."

Percy looked up, boredom written clearly across his face. "Yes, Minister?"

Rufus' glare went up a notch. "_You_ came in _here _and woke me up." He frowned, a dangerous glint sparking in his eyes. "So would you kindly reveal your purpose, and_** get the hell out?!**_"

As the Head of the Auror Department, Rufus was a fearsome adversary even when he _wasn't _tired, annoyed, and in severe pain. Anyone who knew Rufus, also knew when to shut the fuck up and give him what he wanted. Percy Weasley, for all his self-vaunted intelligence, did not know Rufus **Scrimgeour.** As such., Percy did what many would consider suicide-by-Rufus.

Percy looked at the new Minister of Magic, and couldn't help the look of sheer disdain that crossed his features. "As Minister," he started coolly, "you should not be asleep at a time like this anyway. You have a responsibility now that exceeds your own comforts."

Rufus snarled, furious that this little twit of a sycophant dared tell him how to do his job. "Unlike you, Weasley, I did not cower like a little bitch in a corner of my office during the Battle. I was out there fighting to protect this world from people that would see you and your family dead. Excuse me if running nearly 36 hours on sheer adrenaline tends to tire me out. Now get to the _fucking point_, or kiss your job goodbye!"

Percy raised his eyebrow haughtily. "And there-in lies the problem, _Minister_." The emphasis on Rufus' new title revealed just how much of a sycophant he _wasn't_. "You are no longer a Department Head. You are the Minister of Magic. Your place is no longer in the battlefield. You are too important to our society. What if you had died? You are the first potentially-competent Minister we've had in over 50 years." He sneered slightly. "And as for hiding like a little bitch..." He shook his head. "Since the Minister was gallivanting out on the battlefield playing hero, someone had to be here to make goddamn sure the Auror cell-leaders had their movements and plans. Or did you forget that in times of war all Aurors take their orders directly from the Minister?"

Rufus' anger drained away. He _had_ forgotten. It was one of the main reasons Aurors were so reluctant to engage in full-scale combat -if their Minister was an idiot, how could they expect to receive sound instructions? Extensive warding and near-draining spell work allowed Ministers to view the battlefield, while two-way mirrors allowed the Minister to inform the cell-leaders about the movements of the enemies.

He sighed and ran a hand through his mane-like hair. "Just tell me what you came in here for, Weasley. I'm not in the mood to deal with this shit right now."

Percy shuffled his parchments again, this time nervously. "I came to report the body count."

Rufus sat back down and sighed. Closing his eyes, he gestured with his hand for Percy to report.

"63 muggles dead. 12 injured. 229 Death Eaters dead. None alive. Voldemort dead. 163 civilians dead. 42 injured. 16 Aurors dead. 32 injured..."

As the statistics were read, Rufus couldn't help but feel relieved that the toll was so low. He opened his eyes and met Percy's gaze, both of them for once agreeing at a fact that neither would ever voice:_Harry Potter gave us a future.

* * *

_**Well? What do you think? The funny shit starts next chapter. **

**By now I've noticed that my so-called deadline will not be met. Sorry 'bout that, but this chapter took longer than I had anticipated. Again, I apologize.**

**Read, review, and tell me what you like...or what you don't like. I'm noty picky. Love ya lots!**

**-Ceris Malfoy**


	3. Part 3, Section A

* * *

"**I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me."**

**-Hunter S. Thompson**

******Build a man a fire, and he'll be warm for a day. Set a man on fire, and he'll be warm for the rest of his life.  
– Terry Pratchett**

* * *

**To Become A Dark Lord**

_**Part 3: Reveal Your Ambitions (and Deal with the Aftermath)**_

_**Section A: Ron and Albus**_

**By: Ceris Malfoy**

* * *

"I think I've decided to become a Dark Lord."

The silence that met this statement made Harry look up, suddenly thankful that the three of them had gotten up nearly three hours before breakfast was supposed to be served. If this was how his two best friends reacted, what would the rest of those mindless sheep that dared call themselves magical beings say/do? Annoyance swiftly spread across his features as he stared at his flabbergasted best friends. Hermione Anne Granger and Ronald Bilius Weasley were the best friends a boy who grew up in a cupboard for ten years could ever want, but they sometimes had the odd habit of... well, being odd.

"What?" he asked in defensive tone, green eyes daring them to say what they obviously wanted to say.

Hermione and Ron looked at each other, seemingly communicating their united belief that their best mate had gone off the deep end (although it must be said that Hermione had always thought that Harry was more than a bit crazy – he just hid it better than most).

"Harry," Hermione started softly, patiently, and with more than an once of hesitance. "Harry, can you repeat that for us please?"

Harry rolled his eyes and looked back towards his breakfast. It was a ham and cheese omelet, home fries, strawberries, and toast with strawberry jam. Harry took a decisive bite of the omelet, and nearly swooned - the house-elves had surely outdone themselves this time. He chewed carefully, thinking.

"Harry?" Hermione asked.

He snarled silently; eleven plus years of near-starvation had left him with a very animalistic vision of food – don't disturb him while eating and he wouldn't bite you. Very simplistic, very clean, very orderly. So unlike the rest of his life. He glared up at her, and pointedly took his time swallowing. "I said, 'I think I have decided to become a Dark Lord'." He stated this calmly, yet slowly, with more than a slight tint of patronization to the words as if both Hermione and Ron were a bit slow in the head.

As expected, Ron bristled at his tone. His blue eyes flaming with righteous rage, he opened and closed his mouth for a moment before clenching it shut and glaring. Hermione, on the other hand, blithely ignored both Harry's tone and Ron's defensiveness. Harry again rolled his eyes, and privately began wondering why he even told them to begin with.

She sighed. "I thought that was what you said," she murmured. She looked at him sadly, brown eyes glimmering softly with something that Harry suspected were the beginnings of pity. "Why, Harry?" she asked.

Harry shrugged nonchalantly. "It just seems like the thing to do nowadays, you know?"

Ron stared at him, his previous anger melting away in the face of his disbelief, before he started laughing. "Great one, Harry! Wait till I tell the twins! They never would have thought about pulling something like this off!"

Harry looked at him oddly, while Hermione gazed at the ceiling as if asking the Powers-That-Be 'Why me?'.

"I'm not joking, Ron."

Ron shook his head. "Of course you are, Harry. No one becomes a Dark Lord simply because its the 'thing-to-do' of the season. They do it because they have deeply traumatic pasts that have warped their mind, magic, and soul beyond repair."

Harry merely stared at Ron, suddenly wanting very much to shove a table leg down his throat and watch him choke to death. He was still contemplating the logistics of such an act when Hermione slapped Ron upside the head.

"Which Harry has had! Or are you forgetting the Dursleys, Voldemort, Bellatrix, Pettigrew, the dementors... shall I continue Ron, or are you finally beginning to catch on to the fact that Harry is deadly serious about this?" Hermione's voice was scathingly cold, as if she had finally had enough of Ron's thick-headed-ness.

Ron shook his head, still laughing, although more silently now. "Don't be so dramatic, Hermione. Yes, those things were bad, but none of them were all that particularly damaging. They were mere bumps in the road compared to the deeply traumatic-"

Harry had enough. A silent whisper transfigured the knife he was holding into the rudimentary form of a baseball bat. He stood up on the bench (Ron being so into his little spiel that he didn't notice the movement). He grabbed Ron's ginger hair and pulled his head back sharply.

"Owww!" Ron whined. "Harry, what was that-" Harry shoved the bat down sharply. There was some resistance at first – Ron's teeth were in the way. At the force of Harry's first downward stroke, some of them broke off and flew back in his throat. Ron choked. At the second downward stroke, the bat shattered every tooth in his skull. At this, Ron started to both struggle and panic – his arms flailing about alternatively striking at Harry and clutching at his throat, trying to dig an airway that was not cluttered by teeth. The third one went sideways and broke his jaw savagely – tearing the skin of his cheek off in the process.

The forth stroke forced Ron's tongue backwards farther than the human body normally would allow a tongue to go, shoving it into the knot of teeth in Ron's throat. Ron began to struggle frantically, practically clawing at Harry to get him off. Hermione was shaking her head from side to side, mouthing the word "No" over and over again.

The fifth (and final) downward strike forced the bat (by now well lubricated with blood) into Ron's throat and deeper still. Something that only vaguely resembled a screech erupted from Ron as the bat went too deep. Blood began to ooze steadily from his mouth, forced past the bat because there simply was no other place for it to go.

Ron was steadily turning various shades of blue and purple as he continued to choke (though this time on blood and a cylinder of wood), his body swaying, dangerously close to falling off the bench. Harry released the bat and stepped away, watching in fascination the blood slowly drip down his friend's cheek. He thoughtlessly cast the petrifying spell to keep Ron from falling off the bench. It didn't matter much, as Ron died shortly afterwards.

Hermione Granger stared in disbelief at the display, and only when it was done did she remember to scream.

Harry quickly stunned her and then sat and pondered for a moment. He studied the empty hall, the single plate of breakfast, and pondered for a brief moment. He shoved Ron's body to where he had been sitting, placed the fork loosely in Ron's hand, and stepped away. He looked, liked the configuration, and turned towards Hermione.

"Ennerverate," he hissed softly, watching with eerily-glowing green eyes as she came too. The second her dazed doe-brown eyes flew to his, he had his wand pointed at her face.

"Obliviate."

* * *

Albus Dumbledore sighed heavily, and appeared to age several years with the release of breath. Miss Granger's fearful screams had alerted the entire staff immediately to the situation, and they had immediately rushed to the scene only to find one of the most hideous sights any of them had ever seen.

Ronald Weasley, a gifted student in his own right, sat precariously at the Gryffindor table, fork in hand, and a plate of barely-touched breakfast sitting before him. His head was tipped back, empty eyes staring unseeingly at the enchanted ceiling, frozen in a state of shocked horror, as if he couldn't believe what had happened. And the crude form of a wooden baseball-bat –which in of itself was a strange sight- was shoved almost to the hilt down his throat. Blood oozed out of his mouth, painting the wood of the baseball-bat a rather garish shade of red.

Appearing as if they had walked in on the scene (as they were only standing not three-feet from the doors) were Hermione Granger and Harry Potter, both gray-faced, but only one horrified. Miss Granger was clutching onto Harry as if her life depended on it, as if Harry would make what she was seeing go away. She was still screaming, more of a sub-conscious expression of rage, disbelief, and horror than anything else.

It was Harry's reaction that had Albus worrying. He had been watching the young man with something close to unease for the past two years, waiting silently for the other shoe to fall and Harry to finally snap under all the pressure he was going through. Albus had watched Harry go through the deaths of loved ones, friends, and strangers who had merely whispered his name at the wrong time to the wrong people. He had watched Harry suffer the abuse of bullies, Voldemort, and the Dursleys. He had watched as Harry had been forced to kill, over and over again just to protect his life and the life of his friends and surrogate family. He had watched, and had been more than a little mystified, as Harry appeared to deal with these knots in life with barely a murmur of protest, the incident in his office not withstanding.

And now this, of all things that could possibly go wrong. The death of one of the Golden Trio. Ron Weasley, Harry Potter's best friend and surrogate brother. His protector and his ally, the one who had his back when no one else would even bother. Albus looked at Harry's strangely blank face. He looked at those curiously detached green eyes. He looked at the strange way he held Miss Granger, as if he was merely going through the motions of comforting her. He looked, and he wondered if this was it, if this was the straw that would break the camel's back.

Even more worrying to his aged mind was the thought that somewhere in this castle was a person cruel enough, wicked enough, and (let's be honest here) stupid enough to do such a horrific thing. Albus felt chills running down his spine at the mere thought of what Harry would do when he found out who had committed the crime. And he prayed for the soul of the murderer, for there would be no mercy from the Boy-Who-Lived.

**Okay, so this next chapter will be divided into multiple sections. It's huge. Hence why it took so long. I tried to stay IC for everyone but Harry, but a couple of charries gave me some trouble, so don't yell at me about it. **

**In other news, the first chapter of Moonlight Sonata should be up within the next month or so, and the final update for Requiem Overture (the last chapter I had before my harddrive went kaboom) will be up by the end of the week (and trust me people, it's not pretty). Also, I'm taking down Twin Stars, Light Reflections, and Casablanca Lillies. I've been trying for the past three weeks now to rejuvinate some life into them, but it's just not working. As far as I know, they were random plots that just lost the point after the first chapter. (I will be trying again on Light Reflections later, the first chapter has potential.)**

**Also, I've recently joined MapleStory. I'm now one of the few, the proud, the addicted. Come talk to me if you play. I'm on Khiani and my character's name is labygirl. **

**And finally, just 'cause someone asked, yes Harry is sane. He's not all there, mind you, but he's not insane either. He still knows his right from wrong. It has everything to do with the pamphlet in the ending of the first part.**


	4. Part 3, Section B

**I'm so glad people liked the first section of Part 3. This one's a bit shorter, but no less interesting. And you can blame Severus for how long it took to get Part 3 out. I tried to write his POV, and my brain died.**

* * *

**To Become A Dark Lord**

_**Part 3: Reveal Your Ambitions (and Deal with the Aftermath)**_

_**Section B: Draco and Severus**_

**By: Ceris Malfoy**

* * *

"I think I'm going to become a Dark Lord."

A strange squealing sort of laughter met this remark, as if it was the most hilarious thing that had ever been heard. Harry glanced up from his (for once) correctly simmering potion with annoyance written all over his face. He looked crossly at Draco Malfoy, the culprit of the squealing-laughter, and demanded, "What?"

Draco pounded his desk, shaking his head and still laughing. They were both in a detention of sorts –they had ruined each other's potion and in a strangely lenient moment that was highly unlikely to ever happen again within the next millennium or so, Snape had let the _both_ of them redo the potion for full marks.

Harry narrowed his eyes, and hissed his annoyance sharply in Parseltongue.

Draco looked up at the sound, still shaking with mirth. "You-" he had to stop as he gasped for breath. "You, a Dark Lord?" He promptly dissolved into laughter again.

Harry huffed indignantly. Honestly, why did no one take him seriously anymore? "And what is that supposed to mean, Malfoy?"

Draco wiped tears from his eyes, sending a very rare (almost extinct) grin at the Gryffindor. "You, Potter, are probably one of the worst candidates for a Dark Lord this country has ever seen. You can't even inspire fear in a First Year, let alone an entire continent." Draco turned back to his potion, every now and again chuckling.

Harry snarled, green eyes sparking in fury. He pulled out his wand and aimed carefully.

Draco gasped in pain as the hex struck his hand, leaving a small welt across the thumb. Unbidden, the vial of Runespoore Venom tumbled out of his numb hand and splashed into the cauldron. There was silence for a moment, as Draco looked at the potion, his pale features going even paler. He clutched his hand, and turned to stare in silent horror at Harry, all traces of humor gone from his face. Harry merely smiled beatifically at Draco, cast the shielding charm, and ducked behind his chair –just in case.

Two seconds later, Draco's potion exploded violently, thrusting the unprepared boy straight across the room and into the shelves that covered the south wall. With a series of audible, stomach-churning cracks, Draco Malfoy's spine snapped in six different locations. He died instantly.

Harry kept smiling, even as he watched the boy's lifeless corpse collapse in a strangely contortioned heap on the floor.

* * *

Severus Octavius Snape stormed into his office and sank into his chair – a beaten old thing that looked twice as uncomfortable as it really was – hands shaking and head pounding. He couldn't fathom how this had started. Quite frankly, he wasn't sure he wanted to. Two deaths in two days...

He sighed and absentmindedly studied his office. Dank and dark, with cold gray walls and floors that were stained a deeper gray where various potions had been shattered when thrown in assorted fits of resentment/ irritation. The solid oak of his furniture was grainy and worn - in some cases damn near shattered – and... and... what was he going to do?

Severus Snape was beyond worried. Oh, he hid it better than most, surely, but it could still be read in the slight tightening of his lips, the even slighter crease of his brow. He was no fool –two deaths in just as many days did not leave a whole lot to bring comfort to him, especially considering that he appeared to be the only one who noticed what was happening.

What was happening around Potter, as usual.

Potter was always found at the scene of the crime/accident. Potter was always staring with those burning green eyes. And the victims were people Potter had learned to hate. Draco, who had never had Potter's regard, but had always had his ire. Weasley, who had once been Potter's closest friend, but who had shirked that title over countless betrayals. Both dead.

Both _dead_.

Which meant what for the rest of the countless masses that had supposedly wronged the boy in a myriad of ways? Which meant what for _him_? He whom had tormented Potter the way he had been tormented by others. He whom had made Potter's every living moment in his presence as painful as possible. He whom Potter _hated_. He whom had _nurtured_ that hatred into the fiery inferno that it was.

What did it mean for him?

* * *

**As you can probably tell, the sections with characters I can identify with are usually longer. I dunno why, but maybe because I can get into their heads easier. Snape is currently on my shit list. The man (ever since 7th book) completely throws me for a loop, and it's really hard to try and stay IC with him. (Which I am attempting to do, believe it or not. Except with Harry. I'm deliberately screwing with him.)**

**Someone asked me if Harry was Dark or Evil. In my view, he's merely Dark, but I'll never go out and actually tell you that in this fic. I want you to decide if he's evil or merely Dark.**


	5. Part 3, Section C

**Sevie continues to make my brain hurt, but writing this happened to help a bit. There are 3 more sections to this chapter, so have fun! **

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine, no matter how much I dislike the direction the story took after book 3.**

* * *

**Requeim Overture**

_**Part 3: Reveal Your Ambitions (and Deal with the Aftermath)**_

_**Section C: Minerva and Cho**_

**By: Ceris Malfoy**

* * *

"Well, Mr. Potter? Have you made your decision?"

Minerva stared hard at her most worrisome student. If she wasn't so sure that the boy was completely bug-nuts, she would have been mildly alarmed at the way he seemed to be smiling victoriously.

As if he had already won.

Harry stared back at her with cool amusement. His hand twitched.

Minerva jerked.

His lips twitched in amusement.

"Yeah," he murmured softly. "I've made my decision." He smiled rather vacantly at her. "But I don't think you'll like it."

Minerva couldn't help but flash back to their little chat in the library nearly one year ago. She closed her eyes and counted to ten. She did not want to upset him. Merlin knows her heart couldn't handle the stress. "It's your life, Mr. Potter. I am merely here to ensure that your chosen career is possible at this point with your grades." She looked at him sternly, her lips pursed into a thin line. "Which, after your little stunt last year, may be a little hard to stretch."

"I'm going to become a Dark Lord."

For a moment, Minerva's brain short-circuited. Of all the things he could have said...

"Excuse me?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "I said, 'I'm going to become a Dark Lord.'" The little smile was back.

"Ah." Minerva sat back, and stared vacantly at the wall behind her student. Just what was she supposed to do with this? Treat it as a joke? Treat it seriously? How was she supposed to treat it seriously? She turned her gaze to the boy, studying every nuance of his expression.

"Professor? Is there something wrong?"

She counted to ten again, then released her breath. "Mr. Potter, that is an entirely inappropriate suggestion, and your warped sense of humor is not appreciated."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Ma'am?"

"Don't you 'Ma'am' me young man. In light of the recent tragedies you've undergone at the hands of a Dark Lord, I would've hoped that you had more taste than to make such a crude joke."

He chuckled.

Minerva at once felt her usual irritation and a surprising curl of fear.

"Ma'am, you're operating under the illusion that I'm joking." He leaned forward slightly, as if sharing a confidence. "I'm quite serious. I _will_ be a Dark Lord."

She closed her eyes. How did it come to this? How did their only hope become their worst nightmare? She opened them again. "You're _sure_?"

He settled back, and stared at her. "Yes." And then he stood.

Thinking he was leaving, she looked down at her paperwork.

"But you're not going to remember this conversation."

Minerva looked up startled. He wouldn't...she took in the sight of his wand pointed at her. He _would_. Point blank, too; no getting away from this.

"_Obliviate_."

* * *

Harry walked out of his Professor's office, feeling slightly strange. As if their was something he was missing. So lost was he in this feeling, that he almost walked straight into a pale and shaking Cho. She was staring straight at him with fear in her eyes, and Harry immediately knew she _knew_ what she wasn't supposed to know.

He grabbed the frightened girl and thrust her into the unused classroom near McGonnagal's office, wandlessly locking the door after he followed her in.

Cho looked at him, trembling. She opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked helpless.

"Did you hear something you weren't supposed to, Cho?"

Harry watched as her eyes widened, fear giving way to terror within them.

"Can you keep a secret, Cho?" He kept his voice calm and gentle, as if speaking to someone about to go into hysterics. For all he knew, she would.

Her deep-brown eyes found his, silently begging him not to do this, not to do what she feared he would do.

"Do you think I will hurt you, Cho?"

She swallowed. "W-why do you keep saying my n-name?"

"Do you trust me, Cho?"

"Harry?" Her voice was brittle with her fear.

He knelt down next to her, his green eyes appearing to _burn_. "Do you _trust_ me, Cho?"

Cho looked away from him, tears starting to gather in her eyes. "Harry, please. _Please_."

"What are you afraid of, Cho?" He leaned closer, a strange little smile on his otherwise expressionless face.

"Please, Harry. Don't do this. I didn't mean to. I swear I didn't. Please, oh god, please, _please_." Her eyes turned back to his, desperation, terror, and guilt swimming in her deep-brown eyes.

"Do you trust me, Cho?" He leaned closer still, close enough to kiss. His eyes burned into hers searing the tears until there were none to be had.

"Harry, I..." her voice broke off sharply.

"Answer me, Cho. Answer me, and it will all be over with." He raised a hand to pet her fine black hair, as if to sooth. Cho's eyes, however, betrayed that the movement was nothing short of panic-educing. "_Do you trust_ _me_, Cho?"

Something about the way he emphasized the phrase told Cho that she would not be able to betray his trust; she would not be given the _chance_ to betray his trust.

"_PLEASE_!!"

His petting turned into a painful grip as he mashed their lips together in a bruising kiss. Unlike the last kiss the two of them shared, this time it was not he that was hesitant and unsure. He kissed her like he was raping her mouth; all biting teeth and jabbing tongue. He gripped her hair tighter as he raised his wand to her breast. He murmured two little words against her mouth, closing his eyes against the bright glow of the spell.

"_Avada Kedavra._"

He dropped her lifeless corpse and stood up, brushing imaginary dust off his pants. He stared at her for a small moment, ran his thumb over his lips, turned, and walked out the door.

He never once looked back.

* * *

**Wow, Harry. You're such a jerk.**

**Lol. I love the way this section came out. It was so much fun to write Cho - who knew that killing her off in one of my stories would make me that much more tolerant of her idiosyncrasies? I almost like her now. ...but not really. .**

**And Minerva was entirely too much fun to tease and torment, even if I did twiddle with her character a bit. **

**RnR people, I love you so much more when you do. And to all my loyal reviewers, please know that I value you greatly. Your continued support makes me feel all warm inside - especially considering my deadline issues. :)**

**Love ya all, **

**Ceris**


End file.
